Thicker than water
by irnan
Summary: It should have happened by now, Azazel thinks. Samuel should have been his long months ago. Does not his very blood flow in the boy's veins? - coda to "Croatoan".


_I disclaim._

_AN: Possible crack!fic. It's certainly weird._

**

* * *

**

Thicker than water

When the contact dies away, Azazel curses. The Winchester boy may be immune, but that just opens up a whole new avenue of questions.

Over a year since his abilities developed, and he still has not fallen. Azazel, frankly, is at a loss to understand it. Surely the boy should have slipped by now, with all he's been through?

But no. Samuel Winchester remains as steadfast and as… as _good_ as ever. It makes no sense.

Not that Azazel doesn't enjoy a challenge. The strong ones always break last, and they are always the most fun to watch. But Samuel is his favourite, and Azazel has begun to fear the boy will never turn. At least, if he had not been immune to the infection, Azazel would have known for sure that something had gone somehow wrong that night, visions or no. That the bitch who birthed him had found a way to protect her brats from Azazel's touch – Azazel's very blood. Blood that should guarantee him the boy's loyalty. Guarantee him his soul.

But as it is, he's left mired in uncertainty.

Not to mention in mud.

As he turns to pace around the square, his boots squelch in it, and he pulls a grimace of disgust.

Meat suits. They're so _primitive_. He's been wearing this one for so long now that he almost thinks of it as his, and that really is a tragedy for one such as Azazel, born as he was of fire, air and eternity. But his work here on this grubby world, this filthy physical plane of existence, will take months yet, and not even he can hold himself together for that long. He must have a body, a… container, if you will.

The square is dark and silent, the town in ruins, rotting, decaying before his very eyes. He hates it… but the children will hate it more. Eventually, it will drive them mad.

Inevitably, the thought brings him back to the question of Samuel.

The brother. His death could well be the last straw for Samuel. Perhaps Azazel should have killed him outright, instead of taking such time to enjoy Johnny's anguished silent screams as he ripped the brat apart. His protection is powerful, true, but not that powerful. With some effort, Azazel could get past it.

No. He has work to do, great events to prepare for, the fulfillment of centuries of planning. He cannot afford to leave. He will send his daughter, eager bloodthirsty child. She hates the boy, and she's inventive. She will find a way to rid the world of Dean Winchester and make it as painful for Samuel as possible.

If she doesn't succeed, Azazel will have no choice but to wait, to leave the boy till last. He had wanted to bring Samuel here from early on, to give him time to hone his skills and practice a little, but if Dean survives this attack, only desperation and the heat of the moment will topple his little brother.

"Too powerful," Azazel says out loud. "I made him too strong, too powerful." He chuckles then, seeing the joke. He'd meant to insure, by any means necessary, that Samuel would win his contest. Instead he's made it harder for himself to turn the boy. "Oh, but when he turns!"

A shiver of delight runs through him, just imagining it.

"He won't, you know."

A woman's voice interrupts his dreaming, smug and satisfied. Azazel turns once more, and there she is, standing behind him with her arms crossed over her chest and slow smirk stretching her mouth. The same lazy smile she bequeathed to her son.

"He won't turn," Mary Winchester says. "He has something you never will."

"A body exclusively his own?" Azazel mocks her. "We'll see how much good that does him."

"You envy us that, too," Mary replies calmly. "But I meant his soul. His ability to love. Coupled with the knowledge of who and what you truly are… knowledge is power, after all. There's a reason all the other children fell. Ignorance. John made sure that would never be Sammy's problem. Frankly, you're in trouble."

"I have the Colt," Azazel hisses.

"Gotta hand it over for everything to work out right," she points out.

Azazel wishes she were still alive, so he could kill her again. She's right, of course. Samuel's knowledge makes him dangerous as much as it makes him the ideal candidate.

As for the rest, though... Azazel scorns a soul. Love, hah! Weakness, he calls it. Fault. Flaw.

He scorns it with the angry fervor of one who can attach no meaning to the term, no matter how he longs to.

But flesh… flesh of his own… ah, to be human. To feel the way they do, to be more substantial than smoke and ash, to have senses, to touch taste smell hear see in bright vibrant colours instead of shades of grey. John Winchester's was the first body Azazel possessed in long long years, and the shock of gaining the man's memories is with him still: the taste of food, the sun on his face, weight of a baby in his arms, laughter shared with his firstborn son, warm comfort of friends and family, heat of passion.

Ah, to be human. To know these things for himself. To _live._

To understand what makes these fragile breakable ugly decaying creatures so much more worthy of His grace than Azazel is.

Mary is watching him with that damn smirk still curving her mouth. Azazel can remember tracing a finger along those lips, pressing kisses to their corners, parting them with his tongue.

"What are you doing here?" he demands, shaking himself free of the images.

Mary shrugs. "Come to piss you off. The whole moving-on thing is kinda overrated. And seeing as I'm not tied to that house any more…" she trails off.

"You were supposed to have destroyed yourself."

"Bah. I'm better than that. Missouri's psychic, not omniscient."

"I am surprised you're not with your darling boys."

"There are _some_ rules to this state of being. Besides, Sammy has everything he needs already. But if you do send that bitch of yours to mess with my sons, I'll drop by and have a word with Dean."

Her tone of voice is light, but still threatening, and Azazel smiles. "Game on, witch. Now. Fascinating as this conversation has been, there are certain things I need to do before my guests arrive."

Mary looks round Cold Oak, and sniffs. "You couldn't have picked a classier joint?"

Azazel glares at her. "This is _my_ apocalypse, thank you very much. I'll start it off any place I bloody well like."

"Oh, whatever," she huffs.

"Want me to give Johnny a message?" Azazel asks spitefully. He hadn't thought it was possible for her to smile even wider, but she does.

"Tell him I'll see him soon."

"Impossible," Azazel snaps.

"Keep telling yourself that," Mary says brightly.

"There are days – weeks, now – when he can't even remember your name."

She saunters over to him, slow and casual, and Azazel finds himself watching the swing of her hips, aching to understand why the body under those loose clothes means so much to John Winchester, why he recalls the feel of it under his palms, in his arms, with such longing, such regret.

"There are some things," Mary says, looking directly into his eyes now, "that not even you can destroy, Grigori. The sun, the stars, the earth itself. Hope. Mercy. Faith. Compassion. And above all? Love."

"We'll see," Azazel says, a futile threat, and they both know it. She laughs mockingly, tosses her golden-blonde curls at him.

"See you on the battlefield, then. May the better man win. Oh, but wait, I forgot. You're _not_ one, are you?"

Then she's gone, leaving Azazel with his yearning, and his growing fear.


End file.
